


Magnetism

by Debate



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Happy Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7192091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debate/pseuds/Debate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because it’s him, and he’d ignited something in her hours ago, when their fingers had brushed as he handed her tea, and now the fire burns within her, strong and fiercely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magnetism

There is an unfamiliar comfort in having a hand that is not her own splayed against her waist, or rather, his hand. 

And because her life has never been one of comfort, she wants to etch the memory of his fingertips against her skin into her brain, into her heart. 

The comfort is fleeting, his hand wanders across the expanse of her stomach, teasing under the confines of her shirt, but he doesn't stop touching her, and there is a new comfort to be found in that. 

It's not the same comfort that can be found on her mouth, where his lips hover over hers, short breaths in between longs kisses. 

She finds comfort in their new familiarity, another oxymoron to add to their muddled existence. One where his kisses can be both fast and hard, slow and soft and the simple act of tasting each other can be both like somewhere she’s never visited and a place she’s always known.

When they break apart for air, his hand still firmly pressed on her stomach, and her’s sliding up and down his back, she can't help but giggle; she’s being awfully poetic about making out with her commanding officer on his couch at unruly times in the morning. 

“I love that sound,” he murmurs against her lips as he recaptures them and she rather likes the pleasant hum he makes as she shifts closer in his lap to snake her arm around the back of his head. 

She feels him shake beneath her when she traces her little finger on the juncture between his skull and his jaw. She breaks the kiss again, she was smiling too much anyway, but he doesn't look to put out by it as they breath the same air and their hearts beat against each other. 

“Ticklish are we?” She teases, her voice barely more than a whisper and far huskier than usual. 

He blinks twice, rapidly, “I don't...think ticklish would be the right word,” he says, his tone lowering to match her’s, and it sounds like a gravel road, low and deep and creaking. 

His voice makes something cracks in her blood, something that starts in her heart and then courses through her veins to settle in her stomach, warm and sweet like brandy. 

Except she’s deliciously sober and beyond grateful that there isn't even a possibility that she might forget any place where his skin meets her’s tonight.

“Oh…” She breathes, and leans forward to place her lips on the spot. He inhales sharply and his hand that is still wrapped around her middle grips her skin harder. 

As her tongue licks and suckles down the side of his neck, he settles back into the couch more, turning his head to improve the angle. 

She undoes the first two buttons of his shirt exposing his collarbone and allowing her to imprint open mouthed kisses across his skin. 

There is new intention in the press of his fingertips now, it matches the deliberateness of her warm breath, curling tendrils of heat on his bare skin. Before they had been content to kiss like the teenagers they had never been, giggling in between the nip of teeth and the press of lips for what might have been minutes or hours, impossible to tell from the perpetual darkness outside.

The lonely light from his lamp casts an orange glow against their entangled limbs. It makes his hair shine, like polished shoes, and accentuates the deep flush that extends from the side of his neck to his cheekbones. 

She realizes that she can't stop looking at him, at how lovely he looks, and wonders, idilly, when her breathing grew so deep. 

Roy surges forward to kiss her suddenly, as if he didn't do so immediately the moment would crumble and be lost. 

His mouth is still heavy and hard on hers, as if he is weighed down by an anchor, pushing on her as if he could push his soul into hers by sheer force of will. The slow intent of his kiss ought to make her drowsy, it is the sort of kiss meant for Sunday mornings, or for sharing under the covers during a pounding thunder storm. It is the sort of kiss Riza has never had. And instead of making her lethargic, it excites every cell in her body, causing a rich and pleasant tingling. 

She cups the back of his neck with one hand, the other flaring wide against his shoulder blade. She rises to meet the strength of his touch, creating an all encompassing pressure in the place where their lips meet so that it is hardly a kiss anymore, but the inevitable and undeniable attraction of two forces of nature; as if Roy and Riza were two magnets always fated to just barely slide by without touching until one day they turned the poles and they clicked into place. 

She had called earlier, when there was still fading light in the sky, they had spoken about nothing, trite pleasantries to mask the true meaning of their words. After they had hung up, neither were surprised when she had knocked on his door; he had had tea ready. Tea that now sits in cups half full (not half empty, they can't possibly feel empty right now) and has long since gone cold. 

Her lips feel bruised when she breaks away from their kiss, as if to remind her that Roy Mustang is not an inherently gentle person. But she trusts him with more than her body or even her heart, battered and scarred as it is, but with her country and her soul, and with him, a fundamental part of herself too. 

He snakes his hands up her sides, gathering her shirt as it bundles up around her arms, and making it easier for her to duck out of. 

His finger lock behind her neck, like they're slow dancing, while her shirt falls into their laps. For a moment he just smiles at her, and she’s amazed he can look that happy. That they can allow themselves to look as happy as he does when she’s settled in his arms. 

He leans forward to kiss her collarbone, travelling up her neck to her jawline, in reverse to what she had done a moment before. 

“You’re not wearing a bra,” he whispers against her cheek, and she can feel his lips brush against her skin with each word. 

“Very observant, sir.”

She gasps as his fingers tickle around the sides of her breasts and slide down to ghost over the plains of her stomach. The action makes her muscles tense and a shiver rakes up her spine. 

He groans into her shoulder as he feels her shake atop him. His breathing becomes sharp and heavy as her cold fingertips urge his shirt over his head, not bothering to undo the last of the buttons. 

She startles when he leans down to kiss just above her nipple. He glances up at her, with eyes that aren’t as dark as they once were, and desire is not all she sees. Oh, it’s there, but she know this man and the depths of his eyes, and he’s looking up at her with something more acute than passion…

She urges his head back down before she lets distracting thoughts flitter through her mind, and this time he takes her breast into his mouth. His lips are dry, but the cavern of his mouth is so wet, and she grips his shoulders as she squeezes her eyes shut and gasps. 

She shifts off of him and the couch, and he follows her unconsciously, hands seeking out her hips again. 

It’s all of four stumbling steps to reach his bedroom. His bed is narrower than what she would have expected, but it’s hardly a problem when they fall onto it together, with no space in between them. 

She traces a hand up his abdomen, over his scar. Maybe on another night she would have pondered the fragility of their places in life, like two stones in a rushing river, a hairsbreadth from being eroded away. But tonight, as she feels the rippled waves of the irritated skin, it’s not a reminder of failure and pain, but a sign that he has healed, and that she has too. 

It’s dark and she sees him in only tones of black and dark grey as they fold into each other’s skin. But the dark no longer has snaking hands and sharp eyes, but hides them from eyes that may attempt to pry, so the curtains remain drawn tightly closed. 

She would feel safe in his arms anywhere though, she thinks as he captures her lips once more. 

She shifts her hips against his, harder than she means to, when his tongue skims the roof of her mouth. He shudders against her, and she feels his breathy exhale on her mouth. The heels of her hands push against the waist of his pants, and she feels horribly impatient, compared to their sedated pace earlier, but Roy seems to agree as his hands tug them off, taking his boxers with them. It takes a moment (a horrible moment when he’s not touching her) because of how they are lying on their sides, but eventually he kicks the offending garments to the foot of the bed and grabs ahold of her with new fervor. 

His hand skates up her back, mimicking how he had traced her stomach earlier, and she presses into him harder as her back arches and her muscles clench. His hand stills in the small of her back, he pauses for just a moment as his hot breath gusts against her cheekbone before edging her pants down over the curve of her ass. 

Her heartbeat thuds in her veins as his hand follows the edge of her pants down the length of her leg until she removes them completely. She feels the echo of her heartbeat pulse in her core as she closes the final few inches between so that their naked bodies are pressed flush to each other. She thinks she hears them both moan. 

She swings her legs over his hips, he groans again. 

“Let me…” he pants trying to work a hand between them, but she bats it away. She’s more than wet enough (because it’s him, and he’d ignited something in her hours ago, when their fingers had brushed as he handed her tea, and now the fire burns within her, strong and fiercely) and he feels that himself when she takes him in hand and guides him to her entrance. 

The position is a little awkward, but Riza wants to be side by side when they do this; doesn't want either of them hovering over the other, and when she shifts her hips in and down, it feels so right. 

Roy exhales some incoherent syllable and his fingers scramble over her back, over her scar, trying to clutch her to him. 

She stays still for a moment, basking in delight in each inch of his skin, in where they meet. 

The moment passes and Roy begins to move within her, struggling at first to find a way to brace himself before they finally fall into a rhythm, hips working together. 

She peppers kisses across his chest and up his neck, suckling at his pulse point. She finds his lips again, and now when they kiss, it’s full of emotion that arises as a result of their bodies rocking together. 

He comes suddenly some minutes later, leaving a hoarse cry on her lips as his eyebrows clench in ecstasy. 

His hand finds hers as he pulls out, and she would have mourned the loss of contact if it were not for this simple connection, which almost overshadows their previous actions. 

They remain lying on their sides, the bed not big enough for them to rest on their backs, but she hardly minds. Riza opens her mouth to say something, although she's not sure what, but she is interrupted by the press of his fingers between her legs. 

She makes a throaty sound as he drags his fingers up through her folds until he finds her clit. He nudges it once making the breath rush from her body. A few flicks with his thumb was enough to make her shake with release. 

“Sorry, that was a little sloppy,” he says when she reaches up to cup his cheek.

“No, it was perfect,” she answers, and means it. Because it was him and them in their most intimate forms. 

Hawkeye can't even be bothered by her sickeningly poetic thoughts about her commanding officer, the carefree smile on her face, her happiness, his happiness, how they both encompass and avert every cliché (more oxymorons about their existence) was perfect, she felt it in her bones.

They scoot out of bed to clean up and find clothes to sleep in, but when they return to each other’s arms under the covers, Roy mutters against her ear, 

“Next time will be better,”

And she likes that idea, a lot, of them having a next time, for everything.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for Royai week over on tumblr for day six: Ignite, I'm still kinda new to writing smut, but I just really want these two to have happy sex, so tell me what you think!


End file.
